by Nina Clare
Copyright © 2020 by Nina Clare
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
www.ninaclarebooks.com
Contents
1. A Proposal of Marriage
2. A Spirited Beginning
3. A Visitor
4. The Fair Mistress of the Mansion
5. Lady Patroness
6. Plans and Projects
7. A New Object of Interest
8. Matchmaking
9. In the Way of Love
10. A Black Morning’s Work
11. The Beginning of Wretchedness
12. An Amazing Match
13. Abominable Folly
14. Discordances
15. Grave Displeasure
16. Highbury Gossips
17. The Waverings of Harriet’s Mind
18. Broken Bounds
19. Quarrels
20. A Very Handsome Letter
21. Enigmas, Charades, Conundrums
22. The Fogs of December
23. A Troublesome Creature
24. Foretelling and Guessing
25. A Bad Business. A Good Scheme.
26. Before Midnight
27. A Series of Strange Blunders
What Happens Next?
Free Fairy Tale Novel
Books by Nina Clare
1
A Proposal of Marriage
PROLOGUE
The day of the fall of the Last Apple, October
Frank Charmall, handsome and rich, had lived twenty-four years between two worlds, with much to vex and distress him.
He walked impatiently up and down the path, looking in the direction that she would come from. Would she come? Or would that delicate sense of honour keep her away?
The sun had barely risen, and the autumnal morning was cool and misty, turning the horizon into a blur. It was hard to tell where the sea ended and the sky began. But something else came up from west, heading directly towards him out of the mist. Something large and black with storm-cloud wings. Frank groaned. So soon! He knew it could not be long, but did it have to be today?
The messenger bird alighted on the wall bordering the footpath. It gave a single, unnecessary shriek of greeting and shook out its wings for added effect. Frank’s heart was heavy as he reached for the message on the bird’s leg. He snatched it quickly; the bird’s beak was sharp, and it pecked for amusement.
Two words were scrawled in black, spidery strokes:
Home. Now.
Frank scrunched up the note, hating even the foul smell that lingered in its ink. ‘Tell her I’m on my way.’
The bird glared back at him.
‘Well, go on then,’ Frank snapped. ‘I’ll leave within the hour. I’ll even take the six-league path, if I must. I can do no more.’
If a bird could sneer, then this one did. It launched off and flapped away, first circling Frank’s head so closely as to force him to duck. Frank watched it disappear to the island’s causeway, where the south-western gateway to Faerie lay.
He squeezed the wretched note tighter.
‘Frank,’ came a voice from the pathway. ‘Are you there?’ A light blue cloak, a slim, young figure, dark hair, beautiful grey eyes.
‘You came,’ he cried in relief, and ran to meet her, reaching for her through the drifts of mist.
‘Your note said it was of the utmost importance.’ She glanced about anxiously. ‘I can only spare a minute before I’m missed. What is it?’
He took both her hands, and she glanced around again. ‘Frank,’ she protested, but she left her hands in his.
‘It is of the utmost importance,’ he cried, speaking quickly, a sense of urgency upon him. ‘I’m called home, I must leave this instant, but I won’t go without your promise.’
‘What promise? Why must you go so soon?’
‘Promise me your hand. Your heart. Say that they are mine!’
‘Frank, you don’t know what you ask!’
‘I do! I offer you mine – say you return them. Say you will be my own.’
‘Is this a proposal?’
‘Yes! Marry me.’
‘When? How? Frank, you know my circumstances, I am not a good match for you.’
‘Says who?’ blazed Frank, drawing her closer. ‘I say you are my perfect match! Can there be any doubt we’ve been brought together this past fortnight? The happiest days of my life! Surely some fairy Godmother has brought us together, I have felt it, have not you?’
‘I… I don’t know. I am not so familiar with the ways of magic as you, Frank.’
‘Consider the timing! At every turn we have been thrown together, all has worked to conspire to unite us, some good and wondrous spirit has determined that we are perfect for one another, tell me you have not felt that?’
‘You know I have, Frank. You know how I feel. But I cannot submit to a match your aunt would disapprove of, and you cannot support a wife if you are cut off. We must be practical.’
‘No! We must seize happiness while we can and not be subject to the wicked influence of any who would drive us apart!’
‘You are too romantic, Frank, there are practical considerations. And can you really call your aunt a wicked influence? Wicked is so strong a word.’
‘I can,’ said Frank firmly. ‘Leave all practical considerations to me. Only trust me. Will you do that?’
She sighed, but she met his gaze. Her grey eyes soft as the sea mist. ‘I will. I do trust you.’
‘Dearest Jane! We will keep our engagement a secret until I find a way for us to marry. But you must give me hope, my darling. I have not the courage to defy such opposition as I will face unless I know that I have your heart.’
‘You have it, Frank. But when will I see you again? I am asked to go to Eire after Midwinter, and I may be gone many months.’
‘Don’t leave the kingdom. Go to Highbury instead. I’ll follow you there. Is it not part of the wonder that we should both have connections in the same village? Send word as soon as you are there, and I will follow, I promise.’
‘Very well. I shall not go to Eire. I will go home to Highbury, but don’t leave me there waiting for long, Frank. My aunt and grandmother love me dearly, but they have not the room nor means to keep me. I cannot burden them. I should be grieved over every bite of food I ate knowing how small their means are.’
‘I will not leave you one minute longer than I have to – if I had my own will I should never leave your side, not now, not ever!’
‘I must go. They will wonder at my not being at breakfast. Farewell, my love.’
‘Until Midwinter, or thereabouts, my darling.’
2
A Spirited Beginning
One month earlier
The village of Highbury lies softly tucked away in Merrie Old England amidst green fields and country paths and hedgerows of wildflowers. The main road to the city rests quiet most days, its dust not often raised by travellers.
But if one has the right vision, then one can see that the fields are not so quiet as at first glance, for the meadow sprites are busy, especially on full moons, when they like to dance.
Shops and houses cluster about the cobbled broadway of Highbury village. Residents bustle about their business, or linger about their pleasure. On the junction of the broadway and the Donwell road, set back wi
thin pleasant grounds, stands the school. The sign reads: Mother Goodword’s Parlour School for Young Ladies & Fairy Godmothering Elementary Training.
The school’s neat gardens and the sound of children’s laughter make for a pleasant place. Its walls are of the cheerful red bricks native to that area of the kingdom, but the foundations are of old stone from over the border in Faerie.
Atop the conical turret of the school library is a copper wind vane, shaped as a large fox. Seventeen-year-old Harriet Smith watched it closely. She could be imagining things, but, no, the brushy tail on the copper fox had twitched. It had twitched towards the south.
‘Harriet, you’re back!’ Harriet’s fellow Godmothering student called out. She’d come from the bee garden, judging by her pollen-yellow fingers.
‘Rue!’ Harriet greeted. ‘Did you have a pleasant summer?’
‘I did. Right glad to be back though. You didn’t walk here, did you?’ Rue glanced at Harriet’s modest trunk and her large wicker basket.
‘Master Martin drove me in the gig.’
‘How was your summer with them? I hope Lizzy weren’t too bossy?’
‘No one was bossy. Everyone was so kind.’ Harriet gave a little sigh. ‘I miss them already.’ She looked upwards. ‘I thought I saw the fox move.’
Rue looked up at the weathervane, her hands on her hips, making a pollen stain on her gown. They watched carefully for a moment.
‘There!’ said Harriet. ‘Did you see?’
‘I did. Tail to the south, head to the north.’
‘Did you see his whiskers? They only twitch when it’s a big wind.’
‘She’s coming then,’ said Rue.
‘She shouldn’t come until the fall of the Last Apple, and that’s not for weeks yet.’ Harriet tugged her light woollen shawl a little closer, though it was a mild September morning.
‘We got nothing to worry about,’ said Rue brightly. ‘We ain’t done nothing wrong, the first day of term ain’t even started yet.’ Rue yelped, swinging round as the chestnut sprite in the tree behind tossed a nut at her head.
‘She always makes me nervous,’ said Harriet, her light-blue eyes still watching the wind vane. She listened hard to the words in the rising wind. They did not speak of anything so alarming as the North Wind being imminent, but they whispered of something about to happen, and the fox had a sly grin. ‘When she looks at you it’s like she can see right through you.’ Harriet shivered again.
‘Let’s tell Mother Goodword,’ said Rue, turning back to the school entrance. ‘It’s nearly time for the meeting.
They crossed the courtyard, and Rue shook her fist at the sprite as a volley of husks rained down on her.
‘A new school year begins, Sisters,’ Mother Goodword announced, her neat, white cap ribbons nodding beneath her grey hair.
Cloe-Claws sat in the centre of the classroom table, her eyes closed, but her ears twitching as though she were listening to every word spoken. No one even thought of lifting the enormous silver-and-black striped cat out of the way, even if she made it difficult to see one another across the table. Cloe-Claws sat wherever she liked. Mother Goodword often said jokingly that it was Cloe’s school, not hers.
‘Tomorrow the younger students begin their new academic year—'
‘And we start our last year of training!’ said Rue, grinning at Myrtle and Harriet.
Myrtle’s black eyebrows made a scowl. Those present knew her well enough to know that it was not a bad-tempered scowl, but meant that she was thinking about something. ‘Only if we pass our third year,’ said Myrtle, playing with the wooden knitting needle she used as a hairpin. ‘And why must I learn matchmaking? I’m making a study of darklings, not romance. I won’t be matchmaking gryphons and basilisks.’
‘I like matchmaking,’ said Harriet, ‘but it is rather daunting.’
‘It will be fun,’ said Rue.
‘It will be difficult,’ said Mother Goodword. ‘But I have confidence in you all.’ Cloe-Claws flicked the end of her tail. ‘Yes, all.’
‘But,’ said Harriet, ‘what if we fail? What if we can’t make anyone fall in love? What if there are no marriages? What if—?’
Cloe-Claws gave Harriet a look to silence her mid-sentence.
‘We do not make anyone fall in love,’ said Mother Goodword. ‘What is the first rule of Godmother magic?’
‘Aid and Awaken,’ chorused the three Sisters.
‘We aid our wards in meeting their match. We awaken them to their own hearts. We do not make our wards do anything against their own recorded destiny. We are there to support and protect their best path.’
‘Unless it is a matter of Life and Death,’ said Sister Myrtle, liking the weighty tone of the words.
‘Unless it is a matter of saving a life,’ agreed Mother Goodword. ‘In such circumstances we may use magic to intercept, but even then, we are subject to the authorities.’
‘Unless you’re a Grand Godmother, or a Wisewoman,’ added Rue. ‘Then you can curse ‘em and blight ‘em and give ‘em all kinds of lessons!’
‘Curse them, blight them,’ Mother Goodword corrected. ‘And no, as acolyte Godmothers, you will not curse or give life lessons. That is for the higher ranks.’
‘I would sooner curse and blight than matchmake,’ Myrtle murmured.
‘I should hate to curse and blight,’ said Harriet. Her face brightened as she thought of something happier. ‘Will I get my Godmothering name now? I have been thinking about it and the Martin sisters helped me write a list of all the prettiest names – Sister Celandine, Sister Primrose, Buttercup, Delphinium, Gladioli…' Harriet ticked off the names on the fingers of one hand. ‘Elizabeth said Belladonna, but I think that was a joke. I like Gladioli best, but I named their new cow that, or Chrysanthemum…’ she tailed away as she ran out of fingers.
‘It’s tradition for your acolyte name to begin with the same letter as your birth name,’ Myrtle reminded Harriet.
‘Oh yes. So it is. What names begin with H?’
‘Hemlock,’ suggested Rue. ‘I’m joking,’ she said, when Harriet’s face fell. ‘There’s lots of nice names beginning with H.’
‘Such as?’ said Harriet. ‘I can only think of Harebell.’
‘Heather, Hyacinth… help me out, Myrtle.’
‘Hosta?’ was Myrtle’s suggestion. ‘Hollyhock?’
‘I had quite set my heart on Chrysanthemum,’ Harriet said sadly.
‘The Council has not accorded you an acolyte name as yet,’ Mother Goodword said in a gentle voice, as though this were something delicate.
Harriet’s blue eyes blinked slowly. ‘I know I’m not as good at sensing as I ought to be, and my weather-making is bad, but I will practise more this term.’ A little quaver gathered in her voice. Myrtle fidgeted, not liking emotion, but Rue stretched her hand across the table to squeeze Harriet’s arm and said, ‘We’ll help you, Harriet, don’t worry.’
‘For the Council not to have given you a name yet,’ said Mother Goodword, ‘simply means that the course of your path is not yet clarified, my dear.’
‘Clarified?’ Harriet’s voice still quivered.
‘You have some choices to make which will confirm you in your calling as a Godmother, or alter your course. Even destinies include choices. Time will make things apparent.’
Harriet nodded, but looked more confused than assured.
‘It is vital that you work together this year,’ continued Mother Goodword. ‘Matchmaking is a difficult art. It will involve refining and perfecting all that you have studied. Here are your assignments.’ She took up the notes before her and passed them round. Papers rustled as the Sisters unfolded their assignments.
‘These are the wards in our locality whom the Council have discerned as destined for marriage. You have one ward each. The Council desires you to find your ward’s match, and awaken them to one another, thus drawing them naturally together.’
‘Elizabeth Martin!’ Rue read, looking pleased. ‘She shouldn
’t be hard to match.’ Her grin slipped. ‘Though she can be right stubborn. You can tell me, Harriet, if she likes anyone.’
‘It will have to be someone who appreciates cows,’ said Myrtle, frowning at her own paper.
‘Ain’t nothing wrong in being fond of cows,’ said Rue.
‘There is nothing wrong in being fond of cows,’ Mother Goodword said.
Harriet had given a little gasp on reading her paper. ‘Master Knightley! But, oh, Mother Goodword… such a grand person. How shall I be able to match him?’
‘Master Knightley,’ repeated Rue. ‘Who’d think he’d marry after all his years as a bachelor.’
‘Such a man could marry any lady he chose,’ said Harriet. ‘He is so rich, and quite handsome in his way. Everyone knows he is a very good kind of man. The very best. Though…’ her voice faded to a murmur, ‘he is certainly not so handsome as Master Elftyn.’
‘Glad he ain’t my ward,’ said Rue. ‘He’s so proper and…’ she rummaged for the right word.
‘Strict?’ offered Harriet.
‘Boring,’ said Myrtle.
‘How can you say he is boring?’ Harriet protested. ‘He comes from such a long line of heroes.’
‘His ancestors were delightfully interesting,’ said Myrtle. ‘The Silver Knight who battled invading ogres. His son, Cuthbert the Clever, who dug a great well and shot down the fire-wyrm into it. But a mere Master Knightley, what is he, but an upper-crust farmer?’
‘Sister Myrtle,’ Mother Goodword, warned. ‘Respectful words in my school, if you please.’